Repetition
by Ersatz Einstein
Summary: The death of a friend hits some harder than others, and you don't have to look far to see who it's hitting hardest. This takes place after the last book, so there are spoilers. If there's interest (and possibly even if there isn't) I'll expand it.


"Robert? Robert, where are- Robert!"

Edward Augustus Fox-Selwyn, his Grace the duke of Monaburn, charged up the stairs of his tasteful and well-appointed villa, huffing, sweating, and crimson from exertion. Servants carrying loads of laundry and wood for the fire leapt out of the way as their portly employer turned off at a busy hallway, pausing only a moment to check his momentum before continuing to the guest rooms. By the time he reached Dr. Farcett's room, it had become evident what it's occupant was doing: water trickled out from under the door and a frantic murmuring of "not clean, not clean enough" pervaded the air. Throwing his impressive weight against the door, "Gus" was much surprised to find it open.

"Robert!" he gasped whilst trying to right himself. He held up a hand to forestall protest as he clutched his chest and panted. Finally, he straightened enough to see the room properly.

It was clean. Spotless, in fact. Every surface, from the antique furniture to the decaying portrait of his hated Aunt Marion (which he had put in the guest room purposely to forestall visitors who would overstay their welcome) gleamed. The oak floor was sopping wet and the smell of soap and something else he couldn't identify pervaded the air. His eyes moved from the floor to the figure crouched upon it.

He was pale and he seemed to have shrunken in his soaking, soapy garments. His hands (which looked oddly burned) shook uncontrollably as they convulsively clutched and wrung a rag that may have once been white. He had stopped scrubbing for the moment, but he was still staring at the floor, less out of a desire to recommence (Fox-Selwyn suspected) than a fear of meeting his eyes. Farcett's own eyes were dark from heavy bags.

"It's dripping through the ceiling again." There was no response. "Robert, what's wrong with your hands?"

"It's a new product," he muttered, his gaze fixed on a plank a foot in front of him. "Works wonders with stains, but tends to burn the hands. It's what you're smelling, by the way."

The duke crossed his arms silently, waiting for the man on the floor to make the next move.

He continued to stare at the floor as he spoke. "It's just so filthy. All of it. Crumbs and stains and dust everywhere. I-I try to clean it, b-but it doesn't stay clean." He shook his head and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Nothing ever stays clean."

Fox-Selwyn sighed and uncrossed his arms. "He wouldn't want this, you know. He wanted you to get well as much as anybody."

"I-I know that."

"Do you, really? So what's all this?"

Robert belatedly looked around the room. "It's just…" He moved his wrist in a circle as he spoke, trying desperately to articulate his point. "It's just that nothing ever _stays _clean. You clean it, and make it neat, and serviceable, and then it's just… It's just _wrong _again."

"We all miss him, Robert. We've lost too many friends lately."

Finally, he looked up at Fox-Selwyn. "B-but how do you keep building, knowing that it'll all… It'll all crumble?"

"I don't know. What I do know is that I have no desire to lose you, too."

There was another silence as his words sank in. Then, wordlessly, Dr. Farcett put the rag down and unsteadily stood. Fox-Selwyn stepped forward and propped him up.

"Good to have you back, Robert."

Farcett looked at him tiredly. "Would you consider giving the director of the sanitarium a call? I think that it might help."

"Of course, but first, let's get you dried off and into bed."

"Here."

"No, in a room that doesn't smell like - what is that, exactly?"

"Hydrogen peroxide."

"Of course you'd find something with a name like that. I'll never remember it. Would you like some breakfast later?"

"Do we have any eggs?"

"You're in the villa of a duke, how could you suppose…" He trailed off and considered the question. "I may have finished them off, but I could send someone to the village for more."

"Lovely."

Still awkwardly leaning against the duke's shoulder, Farcett proceeded slowly down the hall, eagerly anticipating a few hours of sleep.


End file.
